“My dear boy!” I cried, my hand on his shoulder, touched to the heart by his simple generosity, “don't let us talk of grudges and forgiveness. All I want to know is whether you're contented?” “Contented?” he cried. “I should just think I am. I'm the happiest ass that doesn't eat thistles!” “Explain yourself, my dear Dale,” said I, relapsing into my old manner. “I'm going to marry Maisie Ellerton.” I took him by the arm and dragged him inside the box. “Agatha,” said I, “leave those confounded dogs for a moment and attend to serious matters. This young man has not come up to see either of us, but to obtain our congratulations. He's going to marry Maisie Ellerton.” “Tell me all about it,” said Agatha intensely interested. A load of responsibility rolled off my shoulders like Christian's pack. I looked at the dog football match with the interest of a Sheffield puddler at a Cup-tie, and clapped my hands. An hour or so later after we had seen Agatha home, and Dale had incidentally chucked Lord Essendale (the phrase is his own), we were sitting over whisky and soda and cigars in my Victoria Street flat. The ingenuousness of youth had insisted on this prolongation of our meeting. He had a thousand things to tell me. They chiefly consisted in a reiteration of the statement that he had been a rampant and unimagined silly ass, and that Maisie, who knew the whole lunatic story, was a brick, and a million times too good for him. When he entered my humble lodging he looked round in a bewildered manner. “Why on earth are you living in this mouse-trap?” “Agatha calls it a pill-box. I call it a bird-cage. I live here, my dear boy, because it is the utmost I can afford.” “Rot! I've been your private secretary and know what your income is.” I sighed heavily. I shall have to get a leaflet printed setting out the causes that led to my change of fortune. Then I can hand it to such of my friends as manifest surprise. Indeed, I had grown so used to the story of my lamentable pursuit of the eumoirous that I rattled it off mechanically after the manner of the sturdy beggar telling his mendacious tale of undeserved misfortune. To Dale, however, it was fresh. He listened to it open-eyed. When I had concluded, he brought his hand down on the arm of the chair. “By Jove, you're splendid! I always said you were. Just splendid!” He gulped down half a tumbler of whisky and soda to hide his feelings. “And you've been doing all this while I've been making a howling fool of myself! Look here, Simon, you were right all along the line--from the very first when you tackled me about Lola. Do you remember?” “Why refer to it?” I asked. “I must!” he burst in quickly. “I've been longing to put myself square with you. By the way, where is Lola?” “I don't know,” said I with grim truthfulness. “Don't know? Has she vanished?” “Yes,” said I.